Refugee
An immigrant
in my own country now
nation of destiny
nation of goons
howling outside windows
erecting scaffolds
unbolting the gates
waiting in the folds of the curtains
inching closer
Either it’s my own sanity unravelling
or a slow-motion coup d’état
It’s normal to react abnormally
my friend says
to an abnormal situation
This will be our last phone call
I feel lonely like a man in a hotel
but this is the house I grew up in
I pack my suitcase in the dark
tie it tight with twine
as it swells with sand
with childhood snowfalls
with worthless money
I make my bed
I don’t know why
I pat my pocket
to make sure my passport is still there
that magical object
the imprimatur of this great nation
that made me a favored child
at the borders of vanity
Once I hid in anonymity
in simplemindedness
in hope but that’s over
I write unsent letters
this is one
Like my ancestors
with no place to hide anymore
exposed to heaven
in the desert
on mountain tops
beholding burning bushes
trembling before you
Lovingly I kiss your brow
and bend to tie your shoes
I know too much and too little
It was only a matter of time
before I became a refugee
carrying my house on my shoulders
but I must keep moving
I never get to rest inside
aglow under the warm lanterns of your care
I shine a flashlight at a star
take another man’s daughter by the hand
cross over the land mass
of bent human backs
Departure Time
There’s a leather suitcase
decals from the 1950’s
with a split handle fixed by duct tape
standing packed by the door
or unpacked as yet
agape on the bed
And my plane ticket that can’t be found
or my passport
Even at the last minute
I can’t escape my habit
of concerning myself with trivial things
like Orwell’s condemned man
stepping around a puddle
on his way to the gallows
or Brando fatally shot
on a Paris balcony
using his last moments
to stick his chewing gum
to the underside of the railing
We laugh as our hearts ache
for what it is to be human
What color shirt should I take
and how many pairs of socks
and which phrase book
because I seem to have forgotten
the country I am traveling to
Maybe I should ask the woman
who is tapping her foot so expressively
over my procrastination
Didn’t I marry her once?
The other passengers
from different periods of my life
but all knowing each other
are already checked in and strapped in
helpless and anxious
as they listen to the flight instructions
oxygen masks
emergency exits
flotation devices
I always loved ignoring those instructions
They need me there
to complete a roster
but I am still in my bedroom
though amazingly
the airport has come to me now
and is roaring just outside
pressing close
like a purring steel and glass animal
I know that I turned off
the flame under the frying pan
because I checked it
at least a dozen times
I know the ashes in the fireplace
are completely dead
I stirred them for living embers
thoroughly with my cane
while the sun flared to red
just before it sank out of sight
in my window
What is this thing with fire
all of a sudden?
The sun the ashes the gas flame
Fire that warms that cooks that forges
star fire that allows these words
of living breath to burn
I must jot something down
before it is too late
before the dust stirring in the corners
distracts me
Steven Schutzman is a fiction writer, poet and playwright whose work has appeared in such places as The Pushcart Prize, Alaska Quarterly Review, Night Picnic, I70 Review, TriQuarterly, and Gargoyle. He is the author of the recently published novellas A Bride at Every Funeral, A Corpse at Every Wedding and Pablo, Pablito, and of the recent one-act play collection Where Things Are, all three books available at Amazon. He is a seven-time recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Grant, awarded for creative writing excellence. Website: steveschutzman.com